


simple twist of fate

by pyrrhlc



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Autumn, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Pining, and some bob dylan probably
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-12
Updated: 2019-07-25
Packaged: 2019-11-16 07:31:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,872
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18090062
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pyrrhlc/pseuds/pyrrhlc
Summary: People tell me it’s a sinTo know and feel too much withinThey’re just friends, and he’s okay with that. He really is.





	1. simple twist of fate

“You know,” Courfeyrac says, for about the third time tonight, “I think you should ask him out.”

Enjolras, half curled into the couch and the Politics textbook next to him, does know this. He knows all about Courfeyrac’s opinions. The man never stops voicing them, for God’s sake. He sighs and sinks a little further into the upholstery. “I’m not doing that.”

“But you should!” replies Courfeyrac insistently, his enthusiasm making him wobble. He’s standing precariously at the top of Mme. Houcheloup’s rickety ladder (borrowed with faint permission) still in his odd socks and wrestling with the same lightbulb he was five minutes ago. They don’t dust up there, and it shows. Courfeyrac shakes the lampshade, sneezes a little, then continues, “You know that, don’t you? You’re certainly getting along better.”

He sinks down further. “Ferre?” he calls in the direction of the kitchen, somewhat desparately. “How long until dinner?”

The reply is disappointing. “Twenty minutes,” Combeferre answers back. Then he adds, “Courf, stop teasing him where I’m not around to witness it, would you? I swear, if that lightbulb isn’t fixed by the time this pasta is cooked I’m going to have to do it myself.”

Enjolras, disgruntled, snaps his Politics textbook shut and leans on it, fingers idly thumbing the page corners. There’s a moment of silence before Courfeyrac tries again, “Hasn’t R been working on some campaign posters, though?”

“He’s been very helpful,” Enjolras says diplomatically, despite the slight spasm in his chest at the mention of Grantaire’s name. There are times when he wonders why he ever bothers confiding in Courfeyrac, firecracker that he is – it’s the sort of thing he would prefer talking about over tea with Combeferre, him being the most sensible out of the three of them. But then, Courfeyrac lives for feelings. Really, he can’t possibly not tell the both of them about anything. They are not singular. They are Enjolras-Combeferre-Courfeyrac. Most days, he wouldn’t have it any other way. But today he just feels tired. It’s the kind of day where just having the lightbulb fixed for him is enough, really. He sighs and stands up.

“I’m going for a walk,” he says, as Courfeyrac opens his mouth to say something else. He’s shrugging on his coat and out of the door before either of them can even protest, bare hands shoved into his pockets in an attempt to ward off the chill fall air. He can barely see the sidewalk for leaves, masses of them; a riot of triumphant reds and dandelion yellows bleeding into amber and ochre. He fishes his phone out of his pocket and makes for the park.

Courfeyrac has never, in all his life, meant anything but the best for those around him, but that doesn’t mean he understands. Enjolras isn’t even sure he understands himself. Only, he thinks, as the caller ID flashes up on the screen, that he wants to keep this – it – for as long as he possibly can.

“R?” he asks, quickly, before the other man can speak. It’s late October and Enjolras feels as restless as he always does at this time of year. It’s nothing more than that, really. Damn Courfeyrac for thinking anything else. “Are you busy right now?”

*

Twenty minutes later, ( _damn dinner_ , he thinks, perhaps a little more viciously than needed) he’s sat with Grantaire inside one of the little cafes hidden within the arteries of the fifth arrondissement, a slight frown on his face as he watches Grantaire spooning sugar into his coffee with an awkwardness that seems strange even for him. Eventually, he puts down his spoon and looks up at Enjolras, or maybe a little past him, gaze fixed somewhere above his left shoulder. Enjolras resists the urge to turn around and look where he’s looking – it’s a habit Grantaire has, and even now he’s not sure if it’s because he makes Grantaire nervous or if it’s something he does to everyone. He’s never thought to ask – never dared, really, because who would?

This is one of his problems, he thinks: being honest. He takes another sip of his coffee and tries to feel less self-conscious. It doesn’t work. Grantaire raises an eyebrow at him.

“Bad coffee?” he asks. Enjolras looks at him blankly.

“What?”

“You look like you want to spit. I thought you liked this place?”

Enjolras shakes his head, sets the cup down. “I do. I’m just – nothing. Feeling stressed. How are you?”

Grantaire smiles the smile that’s been tormenting Enjolras at night every night for the last several months. He isn’t sure how he manages it; that careful balance between tiredness and chivalrous concern, the smile that makes him look so much older than he really is. What Courfeyrac said before, he thinks, is perfectly true: he _is_ getting along better with Grantaire now, but not because Grantaire has changed in any way – no fundamental way, at least, not as far as he can see. Enjolras just started seeing him, that’s all. He’s ashamed to admit it, in some ways – his surprise at finding Grantaire is a different person when it’s just the two of them. Or maybe, he thinks, just a different version of the same self. Enjolras isn’t interested in answering that mystery. Now, he’s just happy to have him here. Grantaire and his smile.

They’re just friends, and he’s okay with that. He really is.

Something of his thoughts must show on his face, because Grantaire hesitates a moment before he answers. “I’m doing all right,” he says, without saying much of anything at all. He looks down at the coffee between them, a frown flickering across his face like the shadow of a light, there for just a second before it’s gone again. “Been working on those campaign posters, actually. I can bring them down to the meeting tomorrow, what d’you think?”

Enjolras nods, though secretly he feels a little sad at the thought that Grantaire took asking about _him_ to mean asking about work. He’d forgotten tomorrow’s meeting, in all honesty. He hopes Combeferre has more planned than he does. His speech is unfinished and he doesn’t know where his head is.

“How’s uni?” he asks, after the silence between them stretches just a moment too far. Grantaire blinks at this, then leans back in his chair. His cool grey eyes drift across Enjolras’ face as if searching for a secondary meaning. Finding none (or so Enjolras hopes) he says, “It’s going good, actually. I’ve got a collection of mixed-media pieces due in at the end of this month – style comparisons, stuff like that. You get to choose the subject, so that’s cool. It’s mostly portraits though.”

Enjolras threads his fingers through the handle of his coffee cup, lifting it to his lips for another sip. “Self-portraits?”

Grantaire laughs dryly, turning his face away. “No, thank God. Who would want to see that? I’ll ask Éponine, probably; she’s modelled for me before, but it shouldn’t matter. Maybe do a Arcimboldo and turn her nose into a banana or something.”

Enjolras snorts in spite of himself. “I’d like to see that.”

“So would I. Though, saying that, she’s not a great fan of surrealism. Bossuet would be better.” He laughs, and Enjolras smiles back again, ignoring the deep ache in his chest that has arrived out of nowhere. A kind of forward nostalgia keeps catching him unawares, but he doesn’t know how to rid himself of it. Out of options for the moment, he drinks the rest of his coffee in interior silence, with Grantaire talking wistfully across the table about the kinds of projects he wants to get through this year; spilt canvas, modelling classes, a head-start on perspective landscapes for next year. He’s pushing himself, and Enjolras is happy for him – he nods at all the right intervals, asks questions where he should, but even then…

Grantaire breaks off mid-sentence, catching him by surprise. “Enj, are you sure you’re all right? Weren’t you supposed to be having dinner with Courf and Ferre tonight?”

“I needed a break,” he answers honestly, as honestly as he can without saying the word _fallout_ , except judging by the fold of Grantaire’s eyebrows he seems to hear it anyway. He continues doggedly, “And I wanted to see you. It’s been a while and I – I missed you.”

Grantaire looks at him seriously for a moment, reaching across the table as if to take Enjolras’ hand in his – only to snatch it back at the last moment and reach for his coffee instead. The sadness reaches a little deeper into Enjolras’ stomach, a new kind of fear and hesitance. “Is that all?”

Enjolras smiles and nods. “Yeah,” he says, “That’s all.”


	2. mr. tambourine man

It’s late when he gets back – later than planned, really, with time spent wandering aimlessly near the Seine, both by Grantaire’s side and without, and when Enjolras finally lets himself in the apartment is empty and cool and quiet, no lights on except for the bare bulb swinging above the kitchen table, arctic and impersonal in its coldness. Combeferre sits beneath it, his laptop and a cup of tea sat out in front of him. He doesn’t look up when Enjolras comes in, which can only mean he’s in trouble. He sighs and turns to hang up his coat.

“Are you OK?” Combeferre asks, thought it’s less of a question and more of a statement; an assessment of facts. He picks up his tea from the table and gestures towards the other chair. “Courf went to bed. I said I’d wait up for you.”

Enjolras slumps down in the chair. Combeferre never raises his voice, doesn’t have to – he has other ways of holding Enjolras to account. The patient, tired look on his face says enough. He’s hurt them. He didn’t mean to, but he has. The cavity in his chest yawns ever deeper.

“I’m sorry,” he says, which is inadequate, but it must be what Combeferre wanted to hear because he stands up, sighs too and crosses over to the sideboard where they keep their tea and the funny little kettle Feuilly bought for them from an antique shop. He fills it with water and turns on the stove, reaching for Enjolras’ mug, still perched where he left it. Silence for a moment, then:

“Courf has your best interests at heart, you know.”

“I know.”

“He wants you to be happy.”

“I know that too.”

The kettle starts to whistle; Combeferre takes it off the stove and pours him a coffee, carefully, methodically, dark fingers bright against the white china of the mug. He would be so much _less_ without the both of them, Enjolras thinks. They make him better. It’s something he’s known for years, but he forgets, sometimes. His fault is pride.

Combeferre sets down the mug in front of him with a faint raise of the eyebrows, then sits himself. “Can I ask you a question?” he says. The lightbulb burns bright white above him, throwing everything into sharp relief, hyper-real; dinner plates glinting in the silence of the small hour, still damp, drops of water shining like sweat. It’s so late that Enjolras feels sick with it. Combeferre can take the conversation where he will.

“Go ahead,” he mumbles numbly. He thinks of one of Grantaire’s records, then, the lyrics of the song falling into his head like a puzzle piece. _Then take me disappearing through the smoke rings of my mind / Far from the twisted reach of crazy sorrow._ He sighs inwardly and shakes it away. If only he could forget about today until tomorrow. If only.

“You’re angry still. Why are you angry?”

Enjolras sinks a little lower into the table, the palms of his hands pressed into his eye sockets, blocking out the light. Courfeyrac’s teasing, he thinks, even despite Enjolras’ confiding in him, is nothing, and it shouldn’t annoy him. It is just a suggestion – nothing more than that. Logically, he knows this. But emotionally…

Enjolras lifts the coffee to his lips, takes a long sip then sets it back down on the table with a heavy thump. Every action assumes its own kind of drama under this light. The fact that he’s making a big deal out of nothing only adds to his frustration.

“I don’t…” he says, slowly, carefully, words stuttering like a draughty candle flame, “I can’t ruin it.”

“Ruin what?”

He hugs his elbows. “I’m friends with Grantaire, Ferre. For the first time since we met. And I don’t…” He leaves the end of his sentence hanging, half-hoping Combeferre will step in to give him the words he needs. He’s almost surprised when he doesn’t, sitting back instead to look at Enjolras, head up, head down, his black wireframes glinting in the light. Enjolras needs to stop noticing the light, he thinks to himself. It’s making him feel ill.

“Why do you assume,” Combeferre says slowly, at last, “that asking Grantaire out would change that?”

“Because he doesn’t like me,” Enjolras replies bluntly, hotly. He sounds like a petulant child and hates himself for it. “How would that look? Finally, we start hanging out together and then—”

Combeferre sighs and takes off his glasses, cleaning them with the edge of his sweater. Enjolras doesn’t understand why he hasn’t gone to bed yet. Why he waited up at all, in fact. He’s irritated with himself and wants to break something, probably himself, and he’d rather do it alone. Go out for another walk. See where the winding road takes him. He’s not bothered at this point. It’s walk or sleep.

Combeferre interrupts these thoughts by pushing the coffee forwards across the table with his elbow. He blinks at Enjolras once before putting his glasses back on – it’s an owlish look. “Drink,” he says. “Breathe.”

They drain the lest dregs of their cups together; Enjolras sets his mug down just behind the open lid of Combeferre’s laptop. Multi-coloured fish are dancing across the screen. “I don’t want to talk about this anymore,” he says. He voice comes out far tenser than he means it to – meaner, too. He closes his mouth.

Combeferre, because he is Combeferre (and also an invaluable friend) ignores this statement and asks instead, “How long have you felt this way? About R?”

Enjolras drags his eyes away from the dancing fish on the screen, forcing himself to look up at Combeferre. He’s standing before he knows it. Enjolras has never felt this tired before – it weighs him down like a cancer. He needs to go to bed. “I don’t know,” he says, “I’ve lost track.”

He’s upstairs and into bed before ten minutes have passed. It always seems foolish to say ‘forever’ but the more he thinks about it, the more he realises there probably hasn’t ever been a time where he hasn’t been charmed by – this. Whatever ‘this’ is. Whatever Grantaire is to him, he thinks bitterly.

Enjolras rolls onto his side and tries to sleep. He doesn’t dream.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Feel free to leave a comment or some kudos, it really makes my day. :)


	3. like a rolling stone

He surprises both of them by being up early the next day; by the time Combeferre and Courfeyrac come down for breakfast, the table is set and Enjolras has bacon, eggs and sausages sizzling in oil in a pan atop the hob. Toast is waiting in the toaster. The tomatoes he already burned by accident. He’s not a good cook, not by a long shot, but he tries. He’s trying now.

Combeferre stops in the doorway, rubbing his glasses on the hem of his pyjama t-shirt. “What are you doing?” he asks, as Courfeyrac steps around him to fill up the kettle with water. Enjolras points him to the cup of tea already on the table, then flicks his eyes back to Combeferre. “Making breakfast?” he says. Combeferre’s reply is stolen from him by Courfeyrac’s opening of the fridge.

“Did you buy _croissants_? When?” His hair is a riot of curls as he leans forward to tug them out of the crisper. He gives Enjolras a sideways look. “Why are they in the fridge?”

Enjolras shrugs, studiously avoiding Combeferre’s eye. “I ran out of room,” he says, gesturing to the grocery bags sprawled across the far counter. For all his logic, he’s never been so good at doing things in order. “Meant to put them away before you came down.”

Courfeyrac shrugs and sticks the croissants under the grill, like the heathen he is. He’s never been one to ask awkward questions. Combeferre, however, is another story. “You went out shopping? It’s only eight.”

Enjolras copies his friend and lifts a shoulder, turning off the gas before getting out the plates. “I wanted to say… I’m sorry.” The grill clicks off. Courfeyrac looks up at him; Combeferre just blinks. “I love you both. I’m sorry for getting angry at you,” he adds, to Courfeyrac in particular. Both of his friends look at little helplessly at each other. It’s not like him to say sorry, not properly – this is something Enjolras knows. But he has to get better at it. He must. He doesn’t deserve them otherwise.

“Here,” he says, setting down the plates. He motions at Courfeyrac to leave the croissants alone. “I’ll do that.”

Five minutes later, they’re crowded around the dining table eating and talking about nothing in particular, but Enjolras can feel Combeferre’s eyes on him as he eats – waiting, he knows, for something else. An explanation. If only his feelings were so easy to explain.

“Jesus, that was good.” Courfeyrac announces, leaning back in his chair. He leans sideways and steals the remaining half of a croissant still left on Enjolras’ plate. He lets him. It’s an incurable Courfeyrac habit. Chewing thoughtfully, he adds, “I thought you couldn’t cook?”

Enjolras glances at the small green food bin beside the veg rack. “There were several attempts,” he says lightly. The smell of burnt tomato is going to haunt him for years. “Are you guys full?”

Courfeyrac nods, but Combeferre doesn’t answer, frowning down into his tea. When Enjolras stands up to clear the table, he says abruptly, “You didn’t have to go to all this effort, Enj.”

Enjolras pauses at the sink, his back to them. “I wanted to,” he says quietly. It was more for Courfeyrac’s benefit than Combeferre’s, he thinks, but he was hopeful his friend would see the point of the gesture all the same. “I was wrong and… and you can’t beat a good breakfast,” he finishes lamely. Combeferre sighs a sigh that suggests he understands perfectly but still doesn’t see the point of the gesture. But then, he has never had his boyfriend’s appreciation for food. Courfeyrac drapes himself like a cat across Enjolras’ shoulders just as he reaches for the washing up liquid, his dark curly hair tickling his cheek.

“You really can’t,” he sighs, and hugs Enjolras quickly from behind. “I forgive you, _ami_. You just made my morning lecture one _hun_ dred percent better.”

Courfeyrac exits the kitchen, whistling. Combeferre sighs and reaches for a tea towel.

“I’ll help you dry up,” he says, like the not-argument they’re having is finished, but Enjolras knows it isn’t, not really. He risks a glance at Combeferre as he reaches for a plate, trying to discern his expression. It’s never been an easy task.

“Enj,” he says, as Enjolras’ eyes dart sideways again. He adds another plate to the stack. “Enj, I’m not cross at you, you know. You don’t have to be worried.”

“I’m not worried,” Enjolras says automatically, reaching for a cup, but his hands betray him and he nearly drops it. Combeferre grabs it by the handle and coughs. Still not looking at him, Enjolras amends, “It was just a gesture. For Courf.”

Combeferre raises an eyebrow. Somewhere above them, Courfeyrac is still whistling – something Enjolras recognises, dimly. Combeferre nods at his soapy hands. “You’re shaking.”

Enjolras bats a hand at him and returns to washing up. “It’s nothing,” he says. “Just tired. Can we leave it now? Are you getting a cab later?”

Combeferre bites down on his lip. “No,” he says. “The metro.” He gives Enjolras a chance to reply, then says, “Are you coming?”

Lack of sleep has made him edgy and paranoid, Enjolras thinks. He knows Combeferre is worried, but can’t help but mistake that worry for something else. He puts the last of the mugs on the drainer and moves to dry his hands. “Can’t,” he says. “Still need to plan for tonight’s meeting.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Sorry for the lack of updates; expect any progress on this fic to be pretty sporadic until about July because most of my free time right now is focused on trying to pass my A-Levels haha. This fic is not turning out how I thought it would so it's also gonna take some extra time to try and figure all of that out. But no fear! I published it, so I will definitely finish it eventually.
> 
> Please leave kudos or a comment if you feel so inclined! Makes my day <3


	4. one too many mornings

Technically, if anyone were to ask, Enjolras would be the one to say he owned the Café Musain. But that isn’t exactly true, he thinks, because at the time they had all chipped in together – even Feuilly, who hadn’t had a lot of money then and still wasn’t that much better off now. It’s a good place. A kind place. One of the few places where Enjolras feels completely safe, at home in his own skin.

He owes that feeling to the people who inhabit it as much as the building itself, but on this occasion he could do without the people. He leaves a few minutes after Combeferre and Courfeyrac have left for university with a funny sort of feeling in his stomach. It’s not so much worry as dread – fear of not being able to grasp what’s wrong with him, in part. But another part of it is just undefinable. It nags at him.

He lets himself into the café, dumps his bag on the side. Doesn’t unlock the front door, or draw up the curtains. He takes down a couple of chairs from a table and sits there, unmoving, for almost five minutes. Then he gets out his laptop and starts to plan, like nothing is amiss at all.

It isn’t, he thinks to himself, perhaps more fiercely than needed. Nothing is wrong. But Grantaire’s soft smile keeps creeping into his thoughts, and he can’t let it go.

He needs to let it go.

He gets through the agenda, prints a couple of posters from the back room where they’ve tried to assemble some kind of office (Feuilly’s bike lives there two-thirds of the time, because the flat he’s renting with Bahorel is cramped enough as it is) then checks his emails. He has a lecture soon. He should go. But he doesn’t.

There’s an email from the local food bank, which he archives for later so he can talk to Combeferre about it. There are several more emails asking about open mic night (Enjolras regrets allowing Courfeyrac influence in the Musain sometimes) and there is one email from Grantaire, with a couple of files attached and a little smiley face at the bottom. _Thought you might want to take a look at these before the meeting tonight_ , it says. Enjolras doesn’t, not really. There are days where he can invest himself in this, whatever it is they’re doing, and some days where he can’t. Today he can’t, but he’ll pretend anyway. It is the one skill he has chosen to perfect. He knows he’s good at it.

He forces himself to open the files, smiles despite himself. This is how he knows he loves Grantaire. He is the one person on earth that Enjolras feels no urge to run away from. Like the Musain, he’s comforting.

Even when Enjolras can’t stand people, he can stand Grantaire.

He saves the posters, goes to print them. Finds he has a little more energy than before, starts work on the speech. Leaves for the lecture half an hour late. It doesn’t matter.

It doesn’t seem logical that Grantaire of all people should be the only thing in his life that really makes sense, but he doesn’t question it.

*

They’re not technically closed, Thursday evenings, but they’re technically not _open_ either, Enjolras thinks. He’s one of the last to arrive, and is still trying to pretend it wasn’t on purpose when he bumps into Feuilly in the little kitchenette that still hasn’t renovated properly, because Enjolras has become rather fond of the warped floorboard in the middle of the floor and is still reluctant to get rid of it. He steps back, rubbing one hand against the other clockwise even as Feuilly laughs and greets him the way he always does: the wave is fine, but the hug almost crushes the life out of him.

“What’s wrong?” Feuilly signs, leaning back to look at him. Enjolras turns away for a moment, remembers how fucking rude he is when he’s being grumpy, turns back. He shrugs.

“Nothing,” he signs back, lifting his hands. “Just tired.”

Feuilly rolls his eyes and turns back to the tray of drinks, which is a little bit overwhelming in itself. He peers out of the kitchen door into the front room, but it’s empty. Everyone must be upstairs.

He starts as Feuilly taps him on the shoulder, and turns, hurriedly shoving a folder under one arm as Feuilly hands the tray to him. “Combeferre’s idea,” he signs, pointing towards the makeshift stage, still half-assembled at the far corner of the room. “Most of the tables are still upstairs.”

Enjolras feels a little stupid for not realising it. He’d forgotten Courfeyrac’s idea to rearrange the furniture for open mic night. It had been Enjolras’ job to put it back. He wonders if Combeferre noticed they didn’t open today. Probably.

He takes the stairs slowly, mindful of the fourteen cups he’s carrying and wondering partially how it ever got to this, owning their own café where they hole up together and try to save the world. It seems a little silly, in the some ways. A very small way to help the world. But he supposes it’s better than nothing.

Five stairs to go and he can already hear Courfeyrac talking loudly about this morning’s breakfast. More sedately, Combeferre mentions that it may be a good idea to get off the table. Enjolras smiles. He pushes his way through the door into the impromptu meeting room, Feuilly just behind.

“Feuilly! You brought Enjolras!” Courfeyrac shouts joyfully, jumping down from the table. He stops about four or five inches from the tray Enjolras is holding, and takes it promptly, setting it down on the table. He slings an arm around Enjolras.

“This man made me eggs this morning! They tasted like eggs!” Enjolras struggles out of his grip, glancing at Feuilly, who shrugs.

“I made breakfast,” he signed crossly. “That’s all.”

Feuilly rolls his eyes again and goes to sit down next to Bahorel, who is both better and faster at translating than Enjolras is, and probably more faithful about it too. He sees Bahorel make an egg shape out of the two front fingers of either hand and glares. Bahorel snorts and makes a grab for his glass.

“I’m sure it was a nice gesture!” he says, before turning back. He surrenders the folder to Combeferre before sitting down. Across the room, somewhat sandwiched between Joly and Musichetta, Grantaire waves. Enjolras waves reluctantly back.

“Good day, then?” Combeferre asks, his glasses dangling at the edge of his nose, already looking at the contents of the file. He smiles as he uncovers the speech. “Ah, nice. Love a schedule.” He looks up. “D’you want to get started?”

Enjolras doesn’t know why he feels so embittered about the eggs, but he does. He gives Combeferre the thumbs up, trying not to look across at Grantaire, who isn’t looking at him either, but at Courfeyrac’s highly entertaining impression of Enjolras buying croissants and putting them in the freezer, and laughing in a way that makes his heartstrings hurt. He knows this, of course, because he isn’t looking at Grantaire at all.

“Sure,” he says to Combeferre, reaching out automatically to push his glasses back onto his face. This is one of the reasons they are all so co-dependant, he thinks. “Let’s go.”


	5. i want you

He wonders if it’s too dramatic to imagining living through this world a thousand times before. Enjolras can picture them doing it – this – over and over again, until they get it right. First one goal, and then another. Something specific in one lifetime, in another guided purely by a feeling. For all his faults (and there are many of those) he has only ever wanted to do good.

In this lifetime, they try their best. They fundraise, they donate to local foodbanks. They campaign for a better world – a kinder one that doesn’t turn on its own. Enjolras knows it isn’t perfect. But, equally, he knows he has to try. He is nothing without this. He is nothing without all of them.

If they’ve been doing this all their many lives, maybe that explains why he feels so tired tonight. A weariness that does not come from lack of sleep, but something deeper.

He’s probably waxing nostalgic about nothing.

*

Grantaire looks at Enjolras from across the room, following the fine lines of his face as Combeferre talks about their next fundraiser, and should they be thinking about Christmas soon? He’s pretty sure Enjolras isn’t listening, which is—something. He takes another swig from his glass – not drunk, because he doesn’t want to be so much these days, but comfortably warm and surprisingly at home in his skin. It’s the Musain, of course. And all of them, of course all of them, all his friends. All he has to do is step inside – into a roomful of warm voices – and he’s home. He likes that.

But the warmth seems temporary tonight, because Enjolras isn’t just not listening. He looks tired. The complicated feeling in Grantaire’s chest grows just a little more complicated.

He can’t stop thinking about last night. Can’t stop thinking that he might have done something wrong, though he doesn’t know what it is. It’s a foolish, self-centred thought, but then he is both of those things.

The line of Enjolras’ mouth seems to tighten as Combeferre finishes speaking, leaving his friend an opening. Grantaire watches him stand, slowly, like his shoulders are heavy, like he’s Atlas. Nobody else seems to notice it, though. It could be his imagination.

Could be.

“Yeah, uh, right. You’re right. Grantaire?” Grantaire’s eyes snap to him. Sat down in the next chair along, Combeferre is frowning that small, tight frown of his, which is somehow a relief. He’s not imagining the slight circles under Enjolras’ eyes, then. They’re real.

He is so achingly, beautifully human, Grantaire thinks with a sudden pang. He has this thought daily, every time he sees Enjolras behind the counter at the Musain serving coffee, swearing at the faulty steam pipe, every time they meet for dinner in a poky little restaurant that isn’t romantic but could have been, could have been. Perfection, from Grantaire’s perspective, is not perfection at all – it’s the realisation that the imperfect is twice at beautiful, because it’s real. Real and lovely and brilliant. He thinks it constantly, but the realisation never cuts any less deeply. It shocks him every time.

God, he loves Enjolras.

“Yes?” he asks, not skipping a beat, because he loves him, he _loves_ him, but if Enjolras ever found out Grantaire would probably melt into the floorboards out of embarrassment, never coming back except to say, _I’m sorry, don’t leave me, it doesn’t matter, I’m content enough to live like this, I don’t expect anything in return._ He just _want_ s, like a physical ache in his chest. He _wants_ but he doesn’t _need_ and that’s okay, it’s all okay, because he has never expected more than that, not from Enjolras, not ever. He loves, but dammit, he’s sensible too. Everything has a limit.

Life has prepared him for this; to pretend. It’s not the sort of skill you lose.

Enjolras’ tired face blooms just a little smile as he looks at Grantaire, a slight turning up at the corners of his mouth that relieves and worries him in equal measure. He has no business looking at Grantaire like that. It’s indecent. Warm, and soft, and—and _homely_.

“I know you emailed me the proofs, but do you have the posters with you? We can put them up around the café tomorrow, build some interest in time for the food bank collection on Monday.”

 _God help me,_ Grantaire thinks, nodding and passing the posters over to Joly, who passes them to Bossuet, who drops them, only to be picked up by Feuilly, who hands them to Combeferre and eventually to Enjolras, who smiles again, as blindingly bright at the sun. _God help me, I’m in love with a man who’s in love with the world._

There isn’t much he can do about that, really, except for getting drunk. But drinking is forgetting, and he doesn’t want forget this; the face that makes him feel like he’s finally himself, finally purposeful, alive, electric.

He is not drunk now, he reminds himself, catching himself in the middle of another interior rant before it can spiral, or he says something out loud. He is comfortably warm.

_And do not think, gentlemen, that I am drunk. I can stand well enough, and I speak well enough._

“This is my right hand, and this is my left,” Grantaire mumbles to himself, watching Enjolras as he signals the end of the meeting, already sitting down again to rearrange the notes in his folder. He seems to put Grantaire’s posters away with more care than is necessary, but then, they haven’t been laminated yet. Grantaire knows just how much Enjolras hates bent corners.

The fond smile on his face falters as Enjolras pulls out his diary, retrieving a pen from his pocket before beginning to pencil things in. Combeferre says something to him, something quiet that Grantaire can’t quite hear over the sound of chairs being pushed back from tables, coats being donned. Whatever it is, Enjolras brushes him off with a wave of his hand. Grantaire hears the next part of the exchange quite by chance.

“Aren’t you tired?”

“No,” Enjolras seems to grit out. “I’m not. I’ll see you at home.”

Grantaire almost leaves after hearing that – the amount of tension wrapped up in but a few syllables of Enjolras’ voice. But he doesn’t. He stays.

Feuilly, the last one to leave, raises his eyebrows when he turns and sees Grantaire still standing there, watching Enjolras like a lemon. Grantaire just shrugs, which gets him an eye roll.

“Try to make him leave,” Feuilly says, rather than signs, because they both know Grantaire is a little rubbish at FSL despite his best efforts. He nods, watches him go, then turns his attention back to Enjolras, not sure if he’s been noticed or not.

“Cheek,” Enjolras mutters. He looks up at Grantaire and gives him another one of those smiles, the kind that melts his heart. “You all right?”

Grantaire ambles over towards the table, perches on the edge. Tries to pretend his heart isn’t hammering in his chest. Concern and fondness are all that he is.

“I’m all right,” he says softly, noting the sudden effort Enjolras is making to hide the slump of his shoulders. The bright yellow lights of the café make him look pale; copper skin washed out, his hair scraped back from his face in a way that falls just a little short of messy. They are so similar in so many ways, at times. Grantaire wonders how he ever missed it. He pokes at Enjolras’ diary. “Why aren’t you going home?”

Enjolras snorts, puts down the pen. “First Combeferre, now you. I don’t look that bad, do I?”

 _You look wonderful_ , the helpful little voice in Grantaire’s head supplies. _You always do. But I worry_.

“No,” he says out loud. “But it’s getting on a bit. You’ll miss the metro.”

Enjolras glances at his watch and groans. “Shit. I’m gonna have to get a cab again.” He glances sideways at Grantaire, bites his lip. “You wanna split the fare?”

That feeling again. Grantaire brushes it away. “Sure,” he says, if only to see Enjolras smile again, quiet and private. He sneaks a peek at Enjolras’ diary before he packs it away, hedges cautiously, “You free tomorrow?”

Enjolras finishes packing up his things, slings his satchel over one shoulder. He gives Grantaire a curious look, like he’s not sure how this part of the conversation fits in to the rest of everything they’re not saying. It’s the same look he gave Grantaire yesterday at the café, when he’d joked about the coffee being bad. He still can’t figure out quite what it means.

“Tomorrow?” he echoes. “Yeah, I’m free. How come?”

Grantaire jumps down from the table, opening the door so Enjolras can struggle through with the rest of the papers he’s carrying – why he doesn’t have another bag with him is beyond Grantaire. Their feet beat a rhythm on the floorboards as they head downstairs.

“Was wondering if you wanted to come round,” he says, carefully, as he watches Enjolras double-check the coffee machine, and then all the locks on the windows and the back door. Enjolras glances back at him, another questioning look in his eyes. Grantaire takes the plunge. “I need to ask you a favour,” he blurts. Enjolras pauses in the middle of unlocking the front door.

“Which is?”

“Need a model for my next portrait,” he says, wondering for a moment if he’s pushing the boat out too far. Too late now. “Was wondering if you’d mind – if you—”

Enjolras’ smile becomes a larger one – like he’s laughing at himself, rather than Grantaire. The noise that accompanies it is not an entirely kind one. “Thought Éponine was gonna do it?”

Grantaire hasn’t actually asked Éponine yet, because he knows what she’ll say – she tell him to ask Enjolras, for once, because Éponine is a masochist despite her own pining problems. Now, he’s cutting out the middleman. Kind of.

He’s painted Enjolras before, of course, but Enjolras isn’t to know that.

In real time, Grantaire stumbles over his words, over all the vague, half-formed sentences in his head that will never come out right. He hasn’t quite got a justification for this, unless the justification is an extreme desire to put Enjolras’ face on a canvas, because Enjolras is beautiful. Because he loves him.

Enjolras opens the café door with another small smile, shaking his head at him, which Grantaire takes for a _yes, fine, you strange thing_. The autumn night beyond is cold and quiet, the street empty. Grantaire shivers.

“You need a proper coat,” Enjolras tuts, as they step outside, footsteps loud in the absence of tourists. Grantaire smiles into his collar, tries to look less cold. Enjolras’ long red scarf practically trails the ground as they walk back up the street, all plans for a cab apparently forgotten.

“You should work less,” Grantaire counters, perhaps a little too late. Enjolras glares at him.

“Don’t be ridiculous.” He stops, feels for his phone, almost drops the folder he’s carrying under one arm. “I forgot to call the cab.”

“You did,” Grantaire replies, in the voice of someone who forgot as well but is keen not to make the other feel bad about it. “Do you want to walk it?”

Enjolras rolls his eyes. Grantaire can’t help but think that he’d like to make a habit out of this – so long as it doesn’t get too out of control. As long as he keeps a leash on his feelings, he’s fine.

They make plans to meet tomorrow, at eleven sharp. Grantaire falls asleep thinking about gold and red.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> grantaire had a shakespeare phase change my mind


	6. desolation row

****“You want me to go out?” Éponine asks, looking up from the couch. She’s holding a wineglass and shouldn’t be, because it’s only ten in the morning, but Grantaire is too afraid to tell her so. He shrugs.

“You don’t have to. I just – I thought you were.”

Éponine narrows her eyes. “I told you I wasn’t in work today.”

“You said—” Grantaire leans back against the door frame, trying not to look like he’s looking at the clock. It’s 10:32. This could mean trouble. “You said you were going out for coffee with Cosette.”

Éponine’s expression darkens; she takes another sip of wine. “No. She’s going out with Marius.”

“And now you’re drinking wine?”

An eyebrow raise this time. Grantaire is not very good at this. “I’m drinking wine,” she confirms. Grantaire makes a sad little sound, and she adds, more slowly, “I can drink wine elsewhere.”

“Oh,” he says. “Good.” He watches her cautiously as she stands up. Éponine isn’t usually so compliant. Possibly it’s the wine.

God, he hopes it’s the wine.

She picks up the bottle, drifts with it into the kitchen, asks terribly, “Are you going to fuck Enjolras on our couch?”

It’s 10:36. Grantaire looks up at the ceiling and prays for a miracle. He’s never known Enjolras not to be early, not even once. It’s only a matter of time.

Éponine pokes her head back into the sitting room. “Well?”

“No,” he says, with as much dignity as he can muster. “No, I’m—I asked him to sit for a portrait. For uni.”

Éponine stares at him for a moment, then says, “Oh my god.”

“Ép—”

“No, no. I’ve heard enough. I’m going out. Just let me get my keys.”

Grantaire follows her through the flat to her room. 10:39. He combs a hand through his hair.

“Ép, it’s not like that.”

Éponine bends a little lower over her dressing table, taking out a tube of lipstick the colour of blood. “Oh?”

“It’s not a date. I wouldn’t ask him on a date.”

“He said yes, though.”

Grantaire sighs. He doesn’t know why everyone thinks he’s pining. It’s been years. The pining is long gone. Now it’s just love. “That doesn’t mean anything.”

“Mm-hm,” she says, drawing out the sound and leaning back from the dressing table. She picks up the bottle of wine, examines it carefully. “I’m going to get drunk in the park,” she announces, “and you can’t stop me. Then, when I’m plastered, I’m going to ruin Marius’ date. And then I’m going to pick Gav up from school.” She fixes him a Look. “Don’t fuck on the couch.”

Grantaire rubs at the headache forming behind his eyes. “Loud and clear,” he mutters. He glances at the clock on Éponine’s desk. 10:44. Éponine looks too.

“You have six minutes,” she says, picking up her keys. Her nails could kill a man – specifically Marius. “Put a clean shirt on and you’ll have him.”

“I don’t want—” Grantaire starts, but doesn’t get to finish, his words cut off by the slamming of the door. He glances around the chaos that is Éponine’s room and sighs again, puts his head in his hands. Five minutes. “Ah, damnit.”

*

Enjolras knocks twice on the door and then steps back, pulling at his collar self-consciously. It’s unseasonably warm for October, he thinks, or at least that’s the excuse he’s giving himself. He pulls again at his collar, fidgets, takes a deep breath as the chain rattles and the door swings open. Grantaire smiles widely at him from the doorway.

“Enjolras!”

“Sorry I’m early,” he says, adjusting the shoulder strap of his bag, suddenly unwilling to look at Grantaire, at that happy kind smile. “Didn’t realise how close you were to the Musain.” He steps past into the doorway, already unwinding his scarf. “Gosh, your paintings.”

Grantaire ducks his head. “They’re here and there,” he says, not meeting Enjolras’ eyes for a moment as he leads him through into the sitting room. “Ép hates bare walls. Do you want a drink?”

Enjolras doesn’t answer for a moment, too absorbed by the splashes of colour that seem to hang everywhere he turns. He hears Grantaire give a little cough and blinks back into the present. “God, sorry. Uh, coffee would be nice. Thank you.”

“No problem,” Grantaire says. He vanishes back into the kitchen, humming something under his breath. Enjolras perches himself in a chair. He feels abruptly out of his depth – even Combeferre and Courfeyrac have been to Grantaire and Éponine’s flat before, a couple of years ago when they’d first moved in, to help with the decorating. Enjolras doesn’t remember why he didn’t go. Probably too mad at R for something stupid he said at a meeting.

It seems a long time ago now.

Enjolras lets his gaze pan across the room, taking in the lipstick-smeared cigarette butts in the dish on the coffee table, the untidy stacks of paperbacks by the window, threatening to topple forward onto the couch. There’s a record player in the corner, too; obviously Grantaire’s, because Éponine has never been so nostalgic. Enjolras wanders over to it absently, peering into the box beside it – full of record sleeves with thumbed corners, bent edges. Most of them, unsurprisingly, are Bob Dylan. He’s so busy flicking through them that he doesn’t even notice when Grantaire comes back into the room, two mugs in hand, a fond curling something at the corners of his mouth.

“Nothing you haven’t heard before,” he jokes, and Enjolras spins round, his cheeks heating. Grantaire just laughs.

“Sorry. Being nosy.” He watches Grantaire set down the mugs – _paint water_ and _not paint water_ – and adds, “I didn’t know you had a record player.”

“It’s ancient. I brought it back from my dad’s house after he passed away.” He nodded at the box. “Never listened to anything else, but that was all right. Luckily we have the same taste.”

Enjolras nods, the ground tilting slightly under his feet. He’s never known how to broach topics like this. “He liked music, then?”

“God, yeah. Drove my mum nuts.” He smiles, seems to shake himself out of it, looks up at Enjolras. “Take your coat?”

“What? Oh, yeah, thanks.” He watches Grantaire disappear, sits down tentatively on the couch. He’s been invited here, but somehow it still seems like intruding. Grantaire returns after a moment, gestures towards the coffee table as he sits.

“Sorry about the mess.”

“It’s all right.”

There’s silence between them for a moment, almost like they’re strangers again – reprising their roles as two guests at Courfeyrac’s twentieth birthday. That, Enjolras reflected, had been the first time the two of them had actually _talked_. It seems as long ago as everything else, like a desert mirage. He smiles at the memory, watches Grantaire as he takes a long sip of coffee, sits back like he’s remembering too. They sit in comfortable absence for a moment, both in different places, and then:

“So, you were at the Musain this morning?”

“Bossuet was having trouble with the coffee machine. Seems to break every time he goes near it.”

Grantaire chuckles obediently. “But the steam pipe—?” he says, leading. Enjolras lets out an involuntary snort.

“I know, I know. I need to replace it. The whole thing’s a relic.”

“Speaking of,” Grantaire says, and he stands up to put a record on, and Enjolras’ whole heart just about stalls then and there. He thinks again of that terrible birthday party, sitting on the fire escape with Grantaire and sharing a cigarette, _Desolation Row_ playing quietly in the space between them. It had sounded tinny, coming from Grantaire’s phone that night. It doesn’t now.

Enjolras wonders when he became so lucky.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IT'S SO WARM MY KEYBOARD IS MELTING
> 
> sorry for the lack of updates i'm ! working on my novel at the same time and it's being v difficult rn. not going to abandon this!!!!
> 
> i love two soft boys
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hUvcWXTIjcU


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